


vertex

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: John comes home after too long away. Dean's at loose ends.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester
Series: fic for fire relief [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 23
Kudos: 84





	vertex

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for wildfire relief. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.
> 
> for my 'Full House of Wincest' bingo card for the variations on how this could go, this fills the square 'clingy!Dean'.

Snow on the ground; two days into the new year and John's home. Finally. What was supposed to be a good lead turned into a bad lead, but it was a job either way. He solved the riddle, killed the wraith. Only two dead, which these days means that it was a win, but it doesn't feel so much like one. He's got a laceration on his arm and everything in him feels—bruised. He wants a drink, and a bath, and a warm bed, but he wants, too—

He pulls into the motel parking lot and there's the Impala. Something goes easier in his chest, when he sees it. He parks the truck in the empty space right by the old beast and sits there, in the dark, easing himself for a second. The Impala has a fine layer of snow, gleaming in the neon light. In room 16, there's a _do not disturb_ and the curtains are drawn tight but a little lamplight's leaking out, and John wishes that he didn't have to open the door, didn't have to get up, and stand, and unpack. He just wants to teleport, somehow, from here to there. To be in bed and in comfort, and have none of the troubles in between.

He opens the door. Cold. Why on earth, he thinks, did he say they'd meet up in Minnesota.

He knocks twice and then once, and then twice again. The room opens up, immediately, and Dean's face—John comes in, stepping over the salt line, and there's a blast of warmth from the heater, a wash of yellowish light, the television on and playing some show, that doctor drama. Noise and energy, after the dark empty of the night outside, and he dumps his bags on the table and closes his eyes, breathing it in. Smells like pizza. Well, Dean's been on his own, for a few days.

The door closes. Lock, chain. John drags his hand over his hair and Dean says, quietly, "You okay?"

He's leaning against the door, when John turns around. In jeans, and a red flannel shirt that's seen better days, and grey soft socks. Home, John thinks again, and then he has to look at Dean's face again, and it's like a dozen thumbs are pressing into all his bruises, all at once.

His boy. "I'm good," he says, and Dean's face doesn't get better. He looks—hollow. Starved. Big splotchy dark under his eyes like he hasn't slept, all the time they've been apart. John sighs. "How was yours?"

"Dead ghoul," Dean says. He lifts a shoulder. After a beat too long, he says, "It got a few people."

"Yeah," John says, and holds out his hand, and Dean comes to him in two quick steps, and gets folded against his chest. "Yeah, I lost some too."

Dean doesn't say anything to that. He's too big to hold like this, really. Just an inch shorter than John, and his shoulders all filled out. Well, John holds him anyway, with an arm around his shoulders and the other at his hip, and Dean holds onto his coat, buries his face into John's throat. Quivering in his skin, like a hunted thing.

John disengages after—too long, probably. Indulging them both. There is pizza, a few slices left over in the box, and he gets those down and then gets into the shower, Dean sitting on the sink, telling him the details of the hunt. John has to ask questions to drag it out of him, like he usually doesn't— _what alias did you use_ , and _which cops did you talk to_ —and the responses are slow, Dean's attention somewhere else. When John's drying off Dean disappears, and reappears with a beer, and John drinks it while Dean reapplies the bandage on his arm, cleaning up the places where the cut seeped. His fingers are steady but his eyes aren't, jumping all over. He's got a fat lip, like something punched him, and he keeps worrying it with his teeth, everything in him just—unquiet. John left him alone too long.

"How's your money situation?" John says, and Dean says, "Good, I've got two hundred and a new card," and John says, "How's supply," and Dean says, "Low on silver but there's a pawn shop in town, figure I can make some more bullets soon." All fine, and correct, but Dean's picking at the loose threads on his shirt sleeve, fraying the plaid into ruin, and he's pale and shaky and raw, and John—they can't afford this. They have work to do, and people to save, and they can't just—hole up together, and shelter through the winter like a pair of wounded, lonely bears.

He finishes his beer, leaves the empty on the sink. Dean's looking into the corner of the room, at nothing. "Dean," he says.

"Can we—" Dean cuts himself off, bites his lip where it must hurt. His eyes close briefly and then he looks at John, side-along and then turning his head and lifting his chin, being a man. "Can you just—would you fuck me."

The air goes out of John.

Dean swallows. "I can't sleep," he says, "and I—god, Dad, I've been freaking out, here—"

John gets Dean's neck in his hand, drags him close, cuts him off. Dean comes easy, his body soft even if the words aren't, and John's—lord, they don't—talk, like that, they hardly even acknowledge this, what's between them. "That what you want?" he says, and Dean nods, his shoulders low, his eyes a car-wreck, and John doesn't have a way to arm himself, here. Not when it's been these months, the two of them apart more than they've been together, and when he thought it himself, alone in a motel in Wisconsin, wishing—wanting. He wants it, as much as Dean does.

He kisses Dean soft, no matter that the boy's spoiling for it. He gets a gentle shock of reaction, Dean's hands splayed against his bare chest, holding his shoulders. Holding on. He walks them both toward the bed and Dean hitches air, stumbles. Surprised, when he's the one who asked for it. There's no sense in messing around—John's not going anywhere tomorrow, or the next day if he can help it, and there'll be time, later, if they want to spend the time. Dean fumbles out of his plaid shirt while John's undoing his jeans, and then it's socks and boxers and tee, and then—naked, except for the amulet around his neck, his bracelets, the ring on his finger that John kisses briefly before he kisses Dean's palm, and then his wrist, and then Dean grips his hair and tugs him, asking, so John lifts up and kisses him on the mouth again, taking Dean's open sigh of relief right to the chest, to the nuts, his body waking up at the familiarity of it.

It's better now than it was when Dean was younger. When he was too young, really. That first time—John doesn't think about that first time. Now, Dean's more confident in it, more open. Asking for what he wants and not just taking what John gives, although he does enough of that second one, too. His boy, John thinks, raw inside, and as he's thinking it in this incoherent way Dean makes it true—spreading his legs, getting John between them. His hands in John's hair, kissing him back, his mouth soft and willing, and John's ready for him, his dick bumping over Dean's spread thigh, sliding against his balls and back, behind. Dean breathes against him, their noses brushing. Weirdly intimate, considering. Dean's hand disappears, reappears—a bottle, handed over—and John dips his head against Dean's throat, fumbles one-handed. Two inside, making Dean's hips flinch; a slow, dragging rub, making him make that soft helpless noise, the one John's never heard from another person. He could play, here, and has, for long minutes of just getting noises out of him, watching him flex and moan and leak.

"Dad," Dean whispers, and John squeezes his eyes shut, takes his fingers out. Dean stretches under him, arches, and John bulls in slow but unrelenting, feeling the muscle bloom wetly around him, that shock of tightness and then vague, soft heat, unlike any woman, this—unreal, unbelievable thing. Dean makes a little pained sound. His knees cringe up higher, and John shoves an arm under his shoulders, grips his hip. Tips him to a better angle and fucks in again, slower, and feels Dean's whole body ripple in reaction and then go—soft, totally open. He wraps an arm around John's neck, puts hot damp fingers against his chest. He sighs again, his lips against John's jaw, and John fucks him that way—wrapped up tight together, slow, hardly any force behind it—just rocking, inside, in the cradle Dean's body makes for him, dragging friction and Dean's mouth softly moaning, groaning, wanting him. Wanting his dad to make it better.

Dean comes first. He's twenty-two, of course he does. He ripples around John, his body arching, wet heat between their pressed-together stomachs, and his hands slide, holding John closer, his thighs closing around John's hips to keep him deep. "God," Dean says, "fuck—fuck—fuck me, come on, fuck me—" and John's gut flips but he gets up on one hand, shoves in, and Dean slides on the mattress but grips John harder, his head tipped back and his mouth open, and John nails him, chasing, watching the wet part of his lips and his flushed freckled cheeks and his eyes half-open, staring unseeing at the ceiling or past it, and he thinks, good god, his boy, his beautiful, crazy, loyal boy—

He sags, after. Things go dark. He blinks to find Dean still holding him, wrapped around with his arm around John's shoulders and his leg twined over John's hip, and soft careful fingers stroking his collarbone, feeling that spot where it broke bad, and healed lumpy. He lifts his head and Dean's not smiling, but he's looking John in the eye the way he's started to, now, and John sees the way his lips part and his expression goes inward when John pulls out, but he doesn't let John go.

"Ought to clean up," John says. Quietly. Lately he wants to treat Dean—quietly.

Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't jump quite as fast, the last few months. Another thing John shouldn't really allow, and doesn't quite know how to fix.

He tips them on the bed, a little, so at least his weight isn't crushing Dean into the mattress. He strokes Dean's cheekbone with one thumb. He says, "Think you'll sleep?" and Dean closes his eyes and tips his face into the touch, and John sees for the first time, when his head turns toward the lamplight, that there's a rim of wet, there in his eyelashes, and there's a wet track running down from his eye. When? John doesn't know, and he cups Dean's jaw, uneasy. If this is—if it was him—

"You'll stay, right?" Dean says, scratchy-voiced, and John says, "Yeah, I will," and Dean arches a little, his soft dick pressing against John's stomach, his thigh sliding where it's still caught over John's hip, and he says, "Yeah, I'll sleep," but he doesn't sound happy about it.

John drags his hand down Dean's back, firm. "Tell me," he says.

Not that he has room to make demands, when Dean's sloppy with him. Still, he's—the dad, here, and Dean's his boy, and he does what he's told. He gets a swallow, and Dean's fingers touching the center of his chest very lightly, pulling at the chest hair Dean still can't grow, and a soft, mumbled confession: "I miss him. Little shit. I miss him, all the time."

John closes his eyes. His instinct is to pull back but Dean's clinging to him, wrapped around him, and he can't move more than an inch. "I know," he says, because—god, of course he does.

Dean's whole life is this family. He's faithful to the memory of his mother, loyal to his fuck-up of a father, and to his little brother—when John was very, very drunk, in a cabin in Utah where half the windows were broken and Dean was miserable out on the front step, his world broken, John thought with weird clarity that one day, Dean was going to make a choice. A choice, where devotion would be pulled two directions, and John didn't know, then, how Dean would choose. He doesn't know now. He cups Dean's ass and pulls him close, a full body hug, and kisses the top of Dean's head, gently. He can guess.

"Will you," Dean says, and stops. John pulls back and looks at him, and Dean's hands are both on his chest now, his head ducked. "Dad. I know you're—you're mad—but maybe we can—check on him. Sometime. I just. He's all by himself, and I—"

"I know," John says, again. It comes out harder than he means. Dean quiets instantly and bites his sore lip. John runs his thumb over his chin, pulling at his mouth so that he lets go, and Dean glances up at him, eyes hurt and tired. "I'll take care of it, Dean," he says, and Dean closes his eyes, relief sinking into him. He turns his face against the pillow and breathes out, slow, and John kisses his temple and rolls away, getting off the bed.

"Dad," Dean says, small, and John shushes him.

"I'm just cleaning up," he says. "I'll come back. I'm right here, buddy."

Dean subsides, curling around the pillow. John looks at him, alone in the big bed, and thinks to the week ahead. He's here, for now. Soon, he won't be, and Dean will have to be ready for that. Not yet, though. John's not going to put him through two losses. Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/630090004622934016/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-an-anonymous-reader) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
